Free The Spider King's Daughter by Chibundu Onuzo Page A

finished.
    ‘Wow, thanks.’
    It would not do for his sister to dislike me after all I’d done.
    ‘Jọkẹ, this is for you.’
       
     
    If the hawker was angry at my work, he didn’t show it.
    ‘She’s old enough to wear a little make-up,’ I said and he didn’t argue.
    * * *
    She turned up in a miniskirt. Everyone knows you only wear that type of outfit in the privacy of your air-conditioned car, with the windows rolled up and preferably tinted. Everyone except Abikẹ Johnson. Flashing her legs and then wondering why a mob is chasing us.
    I had to take her home. The driver had left and no self-respecting police officer would have let us walk past without stopping her for indecent dressing or worse. Still, maybe I overreacted. She was upset though she hid it well, trading insult for insult with the danfo drivers. I didn’t know how shaken she was until she threatened to leave. Her fingers shook as she punched the numbers into her mobile phone and her eyes wouldn’t meet mine. I apologised. Then, because it was the only thing to do, I offered to take her to my house to change.
       
     
    With Abikẹ beside me, I felt the squalor of the place even more. The overflowing gutters, the armies of flies, the peeling paint all glared at me afresh. I almost turned back. It seemed easier to fight a hundred area boys than to let her see my apartment block.
    ‘Don’t you know the way to your house?’ she said teasingly when I stopped. Really the miniskirt was not that bad. Just a little longer and it would be almost below her knees. Somebody whistled from a balcony. No. It was either she came to my flat to change or she went home.
    ‘Don’t step into the shit.’
    When we walked in, my mother was sitting by herself in the parlour, clutching the sleeve of her nightie with one hand.
    ‘Mummy, good afternoon. This is my friend Abikẹ.’
    ‘Good afternoon.’
    She looked blankly at us and I was afraid she would ignore Abikẹ’s greeting. Finally she answered, ‘Good afternoon.’
    ‘Come,’ I said, before my mother could embarrass me, ‘let’s go and get the jeans.’
    I pushed my door open and saw Jọkẹ sitting on our bed and one of the Alabi girls drawing a line on her face.
    ‘What is this?’
    Jọkẹ turned and the Alabi girl almost poked her eye out.
    ‘I didn’t know you were coming back so early.’
    ‘Why are you wearing make-up?’
    ‘Funmi, you know my brother, right?’
    The girl turned and I saw the rhinestones that stretched across her breasts and spelt S-E-X-Y.
    ‘Yes. Me and your brother have met.’
    ‘Jọkẹ, who said you can wear make-up?’
    ‘Who said I couldn’t? Funmi, please continue.’
    The girl raised the pencil.
    ‘Stop.’
    ‘Don’t listen to him.’
    ‘I said stop!’
       
     
    Abikẹ pushed into the room and stopped in the centre.
    ‘Hi, my name is Abikẹ. What’s yours?’
    ‘Jọkẹ,’ she whispered.
    ‘And you?’
    ‘Funmi,’ the other said, her eyes focused on the floor.
    I saw what Jọkẹ and the Alabi girl saw when they looked at Abikẹ, her denim so new, her bag so shiny. I understood why my sister’s voice had gone quiet and the Alabi girl would not look up. I spread a pile of trousers on the bed.
    ‘Pick a pair so we can go. Jọkẹ wipe that thing off your face. I’ll talk to you when I get back.’
       
     
    When she came out, Jọkẹ and the Alabi girl were following her like sheep.
    ‘She’s old enough to wear make-up,’ she said as if to silence any objections I might have.
    ‘You—’
    ‘Just see it first.’
    Jọkẹ stepped out from behind her. Apart from the shiny lips and the shimmer above her eyes, she looked no different from usual and certainly nothing like the panda next to her. Perhaps Abikẹ was right. What did I know about these things?
    ‘Jọkẹ, let me see,’ my mother said. I didn’t even know she had been listening.
    When she saw Jọkẹ’s face, she started to cry, small tears you could flick